


Somebody Else

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you're a straight guy who feels weird about his gay roommate kissing other guys. Sometimes this means you're homophobic. Other times, it means you're maybe not so straight after all.</p><p>Liam finds this out the hard way.</p><p>Inspired by that headline we all know and love. "Straight guy worries he's being homophobic to gay roommate, realizes he's fallen in love with him"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Else

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [that headline we all know and love](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0a3ac83b2e36cba0c5b2f2a0bc056749/tumblr_o7xrab7RSz1tpg5guo1_1280.png). I honestly don't know why I wrote this. Lirry aren't even my OTP. I need help.
> 
> All side pairings are brief. Title comes from the The 1975 song of the same name.
> 
> As to be expected, this work is not at all associated with those represented in it, and I would appreciate it if it stayed within fandom. Happy reading, kids.

It starts like this: 

“Harry!” exclaims Liam, grimacing as he covers his eyes with his hands hastily, “ _Seriously!_ ”

“Oops,” Harry intones, and Liam can just imagine the cheeky smile on his face, a face that had been moving steadily down the naked chest of–

There’s some rustling, and Liam focuses intently on the sharp pain of his collarbone, the strap of his book bag digging in relentlessly. It’d been a long walk from campus – he’d missed his bus, and they live so far away that trains come every thirty minutes. It had been easier to walk, but his right shoulder isn’t thanking him at all.

“Okay,” Harry huffs a minute later, and he’s definitely amused, “You can look now.”

When Liam removes his hand from his eyes and opens them, everything seems blurry and out of focus. He blinks a few times, trying to discern exactly who is Harry and who is not, before it becomes obvious that the boy – _Man_ , a voice snipes – with the sharply cut cheekbones and outrageously long eyelashes is not Harry. Though he has a similar amount of tattoos judging by those visible past the sleeves of his black t-shirt, and he’s just as attractive as Liam’s roommate.

Harry’s face is flushed, a light sweat above his top lip gleaming in the sunlight cutting across their open-plan living room from the sunset outside. Although, given what they were doing, it might not be...

Liam’s stomach clenches, like he’s just been punched, and feels winded.

“Zayn,” says the man, his lips ridiculously red. He’s standing next to Harry on the other side of the couch, now, the two of them brushing arms with every breath. Liam looks away, down at the ground, ignoring the way he can feel both their eyes on him. His skin feels all itchy, and all he wants to do is rip off his collared shirt and hide under the covers of his bed, feeling way too exposed despite the suffocating feeling surrounding him.

“Right.” He doesn’t know what else to say, suddenly lost for words. Frowning, he starts into motion, brushing past Harry a little more roughly than he might usually on the way to his room. If Harry notices anything’s different, he doesn’t say. After all, sometimes Liam naps straight after uni. It’s not like it’s all that weird for him to miss meals, or leave his door closed for long stretches when he’s not sleeping. It’s not that weird, not at all.

At least, that’s what Liam tells himself. And Harry?

Harry just smiles, greeting him the next morning with his usual brightness.

Liam, for some inexplicable reason, feels guilty.

 

***

 

Zayn doesn’t last that long. When he stops turning up a month or so later Liam doesn’t ask, even if the question is burning on the tip of his tongue. Luckily, he hadn’t run into them together after the initial encounter. Liam values his eyes, and he’s glad he didn’t have to soak them in bleach any more than he already has. He hadn’t walked in on Harry in months, so Liam just chalks it up to being rusty, forgetting that Harry has a sex drive at all. Harry doesn’t seem upset about any of it, at least, but Liam can’t always read him well.

Harry is... he’s fun, he’s bright, he’s _good_. Liam really likes him as a roommate. It’s been a year, and they work well together. Even if Harry sometimes wanders around almost naked, drawing attention to the plethora of ink all over his body. Liam finds them fascinating, almost tempted to get his own. But he doesn’t think anything he’d pick would look as good on him as they would on Harry.

When Harry turns up on a Friday afternoon a week after Zayn’s gone M.I.A. with a new tattoo, it only confirms this fact. 

“Stop scratching,” Liam snaps, trying to focus on his sound design essay. Dinner had been its usual event – easy chatter, Liam nearly snorting Harry’s bolognese sauce up his sinuses when Harry had delivered the punchline to a horrendously bad joke. If the satisfied look on Harry’s face had been any indication, that had been the intention. Now he’s sat on the couch, trying to study, nose still burning a little. “It won’t heal properly.”

“But Liam,” Harry whines, and Liam holds back a curious sort of flush at the way Harry’s lips jut out in a pout. Liam’s eyes flick quickly back to his laptop, the words staring up at him in accusation, stark black on white. He deletes a sentence, shaking his head at the way he’s typed the same thing twice. “It’s itchy. And it hurts. _C’mon,_ ” Harry prods, his accent both shortening the words and prolonging them, making something in Liam frustrated and angry. Why can’t Harry say anything _right?_ “I’ve had loads of tattoos. It’ll be fine, I’ll just take off the cling–” He moves to do just that, but that _thing_ inside Liam bubbles up and over, and he’s closing the lid of his laptop with a worrying _snap_ , glaring at Harry. Even though it felt like he wanted a reaction, Harry looks a little stunned, his green eyes wide and his mouth slightly parted. Harry’s long hair brushes his cheeks, and Liam just wants to _yank_ , he’s so mad.

“Harry,” Liam seethes, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He feels all hot, and the now slightly chastened look on Harry’s face just makes him feel warmer. “I’m _trying_ to study.”

Something about the explanation doesn’t sit right – maybe because Liam is angrier than he can ever remember being with Harry; maybe because he just closed his laptop and is now standing up, ready to head into the shower to cool himself down; or maybe it’s because Harry frowns, his expression turning almost tentative as he takes in the way Liam’s free hand is closed tightly into a fist, and that his jaw is clenched so hard he’d spoken through gritted teeth. Regardless, Liam doesn’t wait for Harry to say anything more, not even when he glimpses his mouth open to do just that. Instead, Liam stalks from the room, slamming his door so forcefully it rattles in its frame. Once he grabs his trackpants – the oldest, his favourite, the ones he chooses to sleep in – and shuts the bathroom door behind him with the same amount of force, hopping into the shower... well, Liam doesn’t feel any cooler, not even as the icy water pounds against his tense shoulders. He doesn’t feel any better, doesn’t feel like the itch beneath his skin has eased any; and when he goes to continue his essay in bed, forgoing the episode of _Great British Bake Off_ the two of them had planned to watch before sleep, he can’t get the words out. His essay stares back at him, half done, his cursor blinking like it knows the confused jumble of thoughts in his head will never amount to anything more than half-baked ideas and poorly worded citations.

When his bedside clock clicks over to ten, Liam gives up and sets his laptop aside, the angry thrumming in his veins not calming down until the green numbers read _1:53_.

The next day, he feels shamed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises over breakfast, staring down at his slightly charcoaled toast. Harry hadn’t made him any, like he usually does. Liam’s a terrible cook. Not even toast can be saved from his damning hand. “I was tired. This essay is really killing me.”

Harry doesn’t look up from his phone, but Liam glimpses the loosening of his face, his expression no longer tight and uneasy.

“S’alright, Li,” Harry says, and he looks up to give Liam a brief smile. The cling still wraps around his wrist, an anchor visible through the gleam of the early morning light’s reflection. “Let me help, yeah? Tonight.”

“Tonight.” Liam confirms, nodding decisively. He misses the bemused smile Harry shoots his way, instead shoving the rest of his disgusting toast into his mouth before bidding him goodbye, slinging his book bag over his shoulder and racing out the door for his nine o’clock Sonology lecture.

The rest of the day drags, Liam’s thoughts solely on his roommate and how he can apologise. He’d had three hours of Sonology that morning, lecture and tutorial, and then a two hour break before another three hours of class – this time for his slightly less strenuous sub-major. Niall joins him for this, and spends the whole of the tutorial ignoring their tutor and bugging Liam about the crease between his eyebrows.

“It’s just Harry, alright?” Liam grumbles twenty minutes in, quiet, still trying to pay attention to whatever Claire is saying. Her tattooed arms remind him vividly of the pseudo row he’d had with his roommate, and the odd squirming of his stomach increases tenfold. 

“Harry?” Niall asks, frowning. “Hazza? The Haz Man? Haz Pizzazz? That same Harry?”

“Yes,” Liam groans, sliding down in his chair to hide behind the huge rugby player in front of him, the guy who never seems to remember assignment dates or exam times, “That same Harry.”

“Bless him,” Niall says, his Irish lilt making it sound awfully fond. Or maybe Niall’s just fond of Harry. Liam tamps down the flash of irritation at the thought; it’s not like Liam is Harry’s only friend. “Miss that lad. He doing well? We haven’t gone for pints in ages.”

He doesn’t even know why he says it.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Even hooked up with a fit bloke last month.” Liam bites his lip, the sting of his teeth distracting him from the flipping of his stomach.

Niall snorts.

“Only last month? Haz should be pulling every bloody week, face like that.”

Liam bristles, forgetting about Claire and the effect of technological change on the operation of media and instead turning his head towards his blond friend, trying not to frown.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Niall’s doodling in his notebook, tongue sticking out in concentration. It’s a few seconds of silence before Liam breaks, kicking Niall under the desk to grab his attention. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He repeats, hyper-focused on the way Niall pauses for a millisecond before rolling his eyes.

“Liam, I know you’re as straight as an arrow, but even _you_ can admit Harry’s fit. Like, _really_ fit. Like, ‘could be a model but hasn’t been scouted yet’ fit.” Niall smiles at him, though it’s one of those weird ones where the corners of his lips turn down, like he’s trying to fight it. Liam doesn’t really know what it means, only that the girl sitting next to Niall is glaring at them from over his shoulder. He lowers his voice almost to a whisper, leaning forward to get a bit closer. 

“I guess,” he says slowly, fiddling with the side of his abandoned laptop, open on a blank word document. Why did he even come to uni today? “But, I mean, Harry doesn’t pull that often.” 

His friend scoffs, incredulous. “Yeah, not back to _yours_. He knows you get all–” Niall trails off, bring up a hand to wiggle it in a vague sort of gesture, completely indecipherable. Liam frowns, shoving his hands into the front pocket of his grey hoodie, feeling suddenly sullen. 

“I don’t get _anything._ ” mutters Liam, but Niall’s stopped listening, the stick figure ninjas he’s drawing garnering his attention once more. The girl next to him looks a little less angry once they quiet, though her still pursed lips make Liam sit up a bit straighter and finally type something resembling notes onto his laptop. 

Claire drones on, but Liam can’t stop thinking about it.

 _Yeah, not back to_ yours _._

It’s still ringing in his head as he catches the bus back to his flat, bouncing around it as he picks up some things from the grocery for dinner, Harry’s long list of ingredients sitting on his phone. It’s as he’s looking at it again – does that really say bok choy? And _quinoa?_ Liam calls veto – that a new text comes up, from a number he hasn’t seen in about two months.

 _Hey Liam!_ Sophia’s text reads, and Liam smiles. She’s always so enthusiastic that it’s hard to feel weird they’ve slept together a fair amount, though they’re still only friends. _Hope sonology isn’t kicking your arse too hard this sem! In fact, if you want to let off some steam, you should come round to mine tonight. I’ll cook you dinner, you hopeless case xoxo_

He can’t help that fuzzy feeling in his chest, knowing that Sophia still tries to be polite with plans like these. He wishes he could like her like that, it would be so easy. Then again, he knows she doesn’t like him that way either, so maybe it would be difficult, instead of easy.

 _cant,_ he replies in the middle of the vegetable aisle, _haz is helpin me w tht essay. im dying_

 _Haha!_ Sophia’s response comes in mere seconds later, _Maybe he can help with that stress relief!_

Liam chuckles, quickly snapping a shot of the bok choy in front of him. 

_not sure how this is spposd 2 help??? his lists get crazeir i swear_

_;)_  

He shakes his head, tucking his phone back into the pocket of his jeans before throwing the bok choy into the trolley. 

He’s forgotten about what Niall said, and when Harry helps him with that essay after dinner – “Stir fry is really healthy, Liam. It’s not _revolting_ , excuse me.” – he’s left feeling lighter than he has in months. They’ve got it mostly finished, Harry’s experience in the studio as an intern allowing for a more practical approach to his evidence. Besides, Liam feels like with everything behind them, now, the weird tension that shadows him so closely doesn’t feel so suffocating.

Instead, when they share goofy smiles for a little too long, Liam just feels happy.

 

***

 

Louis is next. And the worst part is that he’s _perfect_ for Harry.

“Harold,” he reprimands a week or two later, though the smirk on his face and the grin on Harry’s belies his true feelings, “You are a _terrible_ cook.”

“Hey!” Harry drawls, the flour on his forehead misting down over his nose, causing him to scrunch it in an attempt to hold back a sneeze, “I used to be a baker, you know.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, jumping off the counter and standing on tiptoes to quickly kiss Harry’s cheek.

Liam looks away, chest tight, back at the TV. Some football game is on; one he thinks he’s seen before. Harry would know, but he doesn’t say anything, too distracted by the way Louis smears batter on his neck. Liam’s staring straight at the game, but he can see Louis lick up his mess in apology out of the corner of his eye, the softness of his light brown hair grating on Liam’s nerves. 

He doesn’t know why he’s hanging around. Harry had explained, pretty clearly once Liam had gotten home from uni with his stomach aching from laughing too much with Niall, that he’d be having a friend over. The type of friend it would be had been heavily implied. Six months ago, Liam would have blushed a little, stammered a lot, and told Harry he’d get out of his hair.

 _Now,_ though... _now,_ Liam had looked at Harry blankly and suggested Louis watch the game with them. He’d carefully ignored Harry’s small frown, instead dumping himself onto the couch with a sigh and a complaint about his awful day.

Harry being Harry hadn’t said anything further on the subject.

It’s ridiculous, is what it is. Because Liam doesn’t feel good. He feels absolutely _terrible_ , extremely awful. Like he ate something bad for lunch – though that’s impossible, because his usual beef sandwich from the deli near his lecture theatre is a safe choice, always. But his stomach hurts, no longer with the echoes of laughter, and his temples throb like his blood can’t reach his brain fast enough. He rubs his sore chest, confused and annoyed, and tries to ignore the indignant squawk of his roommate as he’s kissed quiet.

Liam knocks over his glass of water with his foot. He’s not clumsy, not like Harry, so the sound of it leaving the coffee table and hitting the floor with a _clunk_ surprises even him. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, glancing quickly at the couple. They’ve separated, lips looking swollen. Harry’s neck is glistening a little, and Louis’s hair is messier than it had been upon arrival, less artful and more unintentional now. 

“Can’t you ask him to leave, Harold?” Liam knows he’s not meant to hear it, but he’s listening so closely it would have been astounding if he’d missed Louis’s soft whisper, despite the cheering of the fans as someone scores in front of him.

“I can’t just–” Harry sighs, voice softening. There’s a pause, and Liam steadfastly doesn’t look over. “Liam lives here, too.”

“Well he’s cramping my style.” Louis mutters, and Liam clenches his jaw. Louis may be perfect for Harry, but he _annoys_ Liam. The way his blue eyes had narrowed at Liam’s presence on the couch, the way he’d looked him over like _he’d_ been the one assessing, and not Liam; like _he_ was Harry’s best friend and _Liam_ was the prospective love interest.

“Let’s just–” Harry stops himself again, and Liam thinks he sounds annoyed rather than fond. Though, Liam might be projecting. “Let’s just go to my room, yeah?”

Liam whips out his phone to distract himself, staring at the texts from Sophia. She’s asking about the essay. It makes him think of Harry, and then he thinks of Louis, and he’s frustrated all over again. His loose trackpants feel constricting, and his gaping vest feels tight. They were meant to be comfortable lounge clothes, but instead Liam wants to rip them off in some weird sort of protest. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s thinking anymore.

“You sure he won’t follow us there, too?” Louis grumbles from the hallway.

Liam glares at the television, Harry’s door shutting softly on any kind of reply.

He sits on the couch, stiff and angry, typing out masses of texts to Niall. He’s pretty sure his friend is drunk, if the confusing responses are anything to go by. The game goes on in front of him, and Liam doesn’t even know who’s playing. 

About ten minutes into his conversation with Niall about who would win in a fight – the girl who sat next to them in Media (Gillian) and the rugby player who sits in front of Liam (Jack), and thinking up hilarious headlines involving their names; Liam hears something he’d not really contemplated, and definitely wasn’t ready for.

He’s not sure whose it is, and he really, desperately refuses to acknowledge he could work it out if he tried – instead he jumps up from the couch, grabs his keys, wallet, and hoodie from the table and hook near the door, and slams the front door shut on any kind of moan that might be coming from Harry’s room. 

 _u free?_ Liam texts Sophia, ignoring her question about numbers of references needed, _want 2 4get bout sonlogy?_

He’s ten minutes into his bus ride, thinking of the posters on Sophia’s bedroom wall – The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin just to name a few – and how the eyes of Mick Jagger make him feel uneasy and weird as they snog, when the reply comes in.

_Come over xx_

When he gets there, Sophia’s cheeks are flushed and her hair looks a little windswept as she opens her dorm door. She’s beautiful, but Liam can’t get that moan out of his head. He doesn’t even bother with the usual pleasantries, and instead pushes forward to kiss her roughly. She makes a small sound of surprise, but relaxes easily into the kiss, accepting his tongue sweeping into her mouth with her own. 

“Liam,” she breathes as he backs her through the kitchen to her room, where thankfully her roommate Eleanor is nowhere to be seen, “What’s gotten into you?”

He doesn’t reply, instead pushing her against the pillows and devouring her to the best of his ability, that moan ringing in his ears and sounding out with Sophia’s own soft noises, feminine and arousing.

He’s hard – has been since he got off the bus and let himself feel it – and she’s surprised at his eagerness. He is, too. It normally takes him a bit longer to get worked up, Sophia’s skilful hands adept at getting him there, and he has the vague thought at the back of his head that he’s never felt this angry. That’s why he’s like this – his blood is rushing in all directions, and it seems his dick is a fortunate casualty.

Liam breaks away, glancing at Sophia’s swollen lips as he pushes her t-shirt up, exposing her heaving chest, breasts encased in a lacy bra that makes his cock even harder. 

“You didn’t have to dress up.” Liam jokes, his voice a little hoarse. Sophia huffs out a laugh, pulling her top over her head and unhooking her bra as Liam removes his own vest.

“Sometimes I wear things for myself, you know.” counters Sophia, grinning widely. Liam wishes it sent anything other than fondness through him, maybe something like nerves or desire. But he’s well past wishing, and simply kisses her again, fast, before moving across her jaw and down her neck, sucking harshly into her pulse and making her arch her back.

He moves hastily, giving her nipples cursory kisses, before trailing down toward her shorts. His own pants are riding dangerously low on his hips, doing nothing to hide his hardness. Without finesse, he tugs hers off, moving to hover over her hipbones, biting playfully. 

Sophia’s looking down at him, her plump lips red and parted, and Liam squeezes his eyes shut at another spike of arousal.

Her breathy little sighs as he goes down on her drown out that blasted moan a little, but once she starts moaning in earnest at every swipe of his tongue and every suck at her clit, it merely sounds like she’s echoing it, a troubling symphony of sex noises that has Liam grinding heavily against Sophia’s bed. 

Hands thread through his hair, and when she yanks a little sharply, coming with a particularly loud moan, Liam’s hips jerk unevenly, a roaring sounding in his ears.

Both of them are breathing heavily, Liam planting soft kisses on the inside of Sophia’s thighs before she pulls him up gently. Her hands leave his hair to travel across his stomach, which twitches, halting only once she encounters an embarrassing wetness. 

“Did you–?” She trails off, looking down.

“Yeah.” Liam mumbles, burying his face in the space between her neck and her shoulder. He inhales, smelling strawberries.

Neither of them say anything for a long while.

 

***

 

Liam refuses to acknowledge the correlation – that whenever Louis is hanging all over Harry, he escapes to Sophia’s. Whenever he sees them together a strange sort of distaste settles over his tongue, and he’s itching to text her, to bury himself in the softness of her thighs and the delicate way she rides him. 

 _It’s fine,_ he thinks as Harry cuddles into the crook of Louis’s arm a few weeks later, Liam in the lone armchair and trying to focus on the way Jessica Chastain is talking about ghosts, _They’re fine. Two guys embracing. Totally normal._

Because that’s what he’s maybe, sort of, figured out.

In the year they’ve roomed together – Harry answering Liam’s ad in a fit of desperation, Liam accepting him because he seemed like the first normal person to respond – he’s never had a problem with the fact Harry’s gay. At least, he didn’t think he had one.

But what Niall said those weeks ago comes back – “Yeah, not back to _yours._ ” – and Liam finds himself reassessing.

There’s a reason Harry doesn’t bring guys back to their flat much. At first, Liam thought he was private – that flew right out of the window once Harry became more comfortable and began undressing to his briefs whenever he could. Then, Liam thought that maybe Harry simply didn’t pull much – Harry’s a good-looking guy, sure, but that didn’t mean he had to be having sex all the time.

But then Harry would come home with love bites; and sometimes he’d turn up to their movie nights a little late and a lot flushed and Liam would tease, would maybe flirt a little sometimes because he’s comfortable with it all. He’s straight, but he’s not homophobic. Harry is his _friend_. He _loves_ Harry. The fact that he’s gay doesn’t matter.

He can’t deny, though, the disgust he feels when he sees Harry and Louis embrace. He can’t deny that when they kiss all he wants to do is stare in some kind of morbid fascination, but he also wants to never see it ever again, never witness that intimacy. 

Liam feels awful. He feels so guilty, like he’s done something wrong – which he _has_ , because homophobia _is_ wrong and he’s feeling it. 

What the hell is wrong with him? 

Harry _must_ know. There has to be a reason he’s not bringing guys back to his flat. Liam’s right – he doesn’t pull a whole lot, he’s not some sort of slag (Liam cringes at the phrase, ignoring the guilt gnawing at him); but when he does decide to get up close and personal with another guy, he’s always kept it off Liam’s radar, at least for the most part. 

So the fact that Louis is around all the time? He shudders to think of it as some sort of test... but if it’s a test, then Liam is failing miserably. 

It’s a vicious cycle, because Liam’s guilt makes him feel like shit, but looking at the way Harry’s affectionate with Louis makes him feel gross, and then guilty, and then he feels like shit again. It’s horrible, and Liam doesn’t know what to do. So he sits in the armchair, fists clenched when he glimpses Louis run a hand through Harry’s hair, and tries to focus on the movie.

“Look,” Liam grits out after Anne Hathaway figures out her team member died on this ocean planet Liam thinks looks horrifying, “Can you just stop?”

The silence of the actors echoes the silence of the room, and Liam stares right into Anne’s face to avoid looking anywhere else.

“Sorry?” Louis queries, tone hard. Liam shuts his eyes briefly before flicking an angry look in their direction, ignoring Harry’s confused frown and Louis’s flat stare.

“Just. Can you stop?” There’s a pause, where Harry’s frown deepens and Liam’s guilt magnifies but he can’t stop, it’s just bursting out of him like a broken pipe spraying water everywhere, “You know? With the touching?” 

People are screaming on screen, the music reaching a crescendo as someone appears to be too far away to make it back onto the spaceship safely.

“Excuse me?” Louis says slowly, and there’s a deadly edge to his voice. 

Liam says nothing, but the damage is done.

“Okay,” Harry breathes out once the door shuts behind Louis. Liam breathes a sigh of relief that he won’t have to go to Sophia’s tonight, sinking more comfortably into his armchair with the thought. “What the fuck, Liam?”

Liam starts, looking toward his roommate with a frown.

“What?”

“What?” echoes Harry, and his expression morphs from confusion to incredulous anger, his hair messy around his head like an enraged halo, “ _What?_ ” His voice goes deeper even if it doesn’t rise in volume, and the guilt Liam had managed to forget about amongst the drama of the film they’d only just finished watching comes rushing back, rearing its ugly head like a cobra waiting to strike at any weakness. “Since when the fuck do you have a problem with me and Louis touching?”

The question reminds him of the hand in Harry’s hair, the wetness of Harry’s neck, the love bites he saw the next day, littered all over and leading down Harry’s chest, over his butterfly tattoo, underneath his gaping shirt–

“Don’t glare at me.” Harry snaps, and he’s striding forward now, away from the door and toward Liam. He’s looming over him, eyes furious, and Liam stands just so he doesn’t feel so unsettled, just so his stomach doesn’t feel like it’s going to drop down into his groin at any moment. His skin feels like it’s on fire, and Liam can’t ever remember being so quick to anger in his life. What are Harry and Louis _doing_ to him? The guilt hits him again, like the big wave that almost engulfed those astronauts. “Why are you being such an arse?” 

Liam grits his teeth, unable to tell the truth.

 _I_ love _Harry. It doesn’t matter that he’s gay. I love him, don’t ruin this._  

“Do you have a problem with me?” Harry asks after a moment. He doesn’t sound angry anymore. In fact – looking at Harry’s face, the way his mouth is turned down at the corners, and the way he seems small despite his height – he looks defeated. “Do you have a problem with me sleeping with guys?”

“What?” Liam’s response is knee-jerk, and he scoffs like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, the guilt pushing down on him painfully because _Harry is right_. “No. Don’t be stupid.” 

“Alright,” Harry says slowly, a bit quietly, but then the fire returns to his eyes and his strong jaw clenches in anger. Liam is, a little, afraid. “Well it’d be a bit hypocritical of you to dislike the PDA. Whenever Sophia,” he spits out the name like it’s personally wronged him, and Liam’s eyes dart to Harry’s, trying to read them but hopelessly failing, “comes around, you can’t keep off her.”

“She’s barely here!” Liam exclaims, pushing Harry back a bit, trying to breathe. He goes easily, stepping away but breathing heavily in frustration.

 _You’re fine. You’re a little homophobic but you’re_ fine _. You still love him._

“Look,” Liam starts, frowning, trying to calm the rushing of his pulse in his ears, “I’m sorry, alright? I just had a bad day.”

There’s a strained silence, the flat unusually quiet. If it were any other day, if Liam weren’t such an awful person, they’d be laughing at something dumb right about now. Actually, Louis would probably be in Harry’s room, and they’d be _together–_

Liam squeezes his eyes shut tightly, trying to dispel the image. He opens them again, ploughing on.

“I don’t care who you sleep with, alright? It’s fine. We’re fine, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes seem a little wet, but Liam is trying to hold back his own exhaustion, his own frustration, and doesn’t notice. 

“Right,” Harry says quietly after a moment, “I think I’m going to go to Nick’s for a bit.” He turns toward the door to leave.

“Harry,” Liam begins to plead, but stops at the look Harry shoots him over his shoulder, devastated and angry. Liam hangs his head, shame creeping into his chest like hands gripping his heart, clutching at it in a painful rhythm that he won’t soon forget. He expects to hear the door close, soft and final because Harry doesn’t ever slam anything, but he’s a little startled by the sound of Harry’s voice; low, croaky; like he’s trying not to cry.

“So you’ll be okay with me sleeping with Louis as long as it’s at _his_ flat, right?” Liam looks up only to see the back of Harry’s head, his brown curls soft and inviting, his forest green sweater matching the feeling. He swallows thickly, trying not to blurt out the very thing that could irreparably ruin their friendship. 

“It’s none of my business what you do there, Haz.” The nickname doesn’t go unnoticed, but even though Liam spoke it so softly, it does nothing but make Harry’s shoulders bunch up to his ears, his grip on the doorknob tightening so his knuckles turn white. Without saying anything more, Harry opens the door and leaves.

It shuts, soft and final just like he predicted, but Liam doesn’t feel at all like it’s over.

 

***

 

It’s a tense week. Harry comes back the next day, and neither of them look at each other. Liam eats charcoal toast every morning with watery tea, and tries to ignore the last text Harry had sent him, a cheerful _Can’t wait for pints on Saturday!_ that has dread making a home in Liam’s heart as if it likes the look of the new neighbourhood and doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. 

“What crawled up your arses and died?” Niall asks through a mouthful of chips after a hostile forty minutes and a mumbled excuse from Harry about going to the bathroom. 

“Nothing.” Liam answers hastily, pulling the label off of his beer in slow, short rips. The crushed expression on Harry’s face as he left the flat that night feels imprinted on Liam’s eyelids, playing over and over like some sort of sick and twisted short film. Liam’s never felt worse in his life. Harry’s his friend – probably his best friend, if he’s being honest; Andy’s too busy with his girlfriend to hang out much anymore, and Niall has so many friends that finding the time to hang out outside of class is too difficult. Liam is reluctant to admit that, apart from Sophia, he doesn’t really have anyone else. And after the way Harry had said her name that night, he’s been reluctant to take her up on her offers of stress relief, even of innocent ones asking to grab a coffee and rant about their subject coordinator.

Niall snorts, clearly not convinced, but doesn’t push any further. Liam likes that about him, even if the perceptive way he’s eyeing up Liam leaves him a little sweaty.

When Harry comes back, his eyes are a little red and his cheeks seem a little flushed. Liam knows better than to think he’s done anything but cry, and the weight of his guilt leaves him gasping.

Niall doesn’t say anything, but Liam doesn’t miss the careful hand he places on Harry’s arm and the way he gladly shares his food with his taller friend. It’s the little things, Liam thinks with a pang as Harry gives a timid smile, that Niall is the best at.

In a last ditch attempt at reconciling whatever is wrong between them, Liam shifts to be closer to Harry, his right arm pushing into Harry’s left and not leaving. After a pause, Harry pushes back tentatively.

“How’s Louis?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light and his face friendly. It stirs something inside him to ask, and Liam hates himself for the feeling, but he’s _trying_ , okay? He’s honestly trying.

“He’s okay,” answers Harry quietly, staring into his vodka and lemonade wistfully. “We’re not– anymore.”

The halting explanation sets Liam’s heart beating at a new, faster pace, fluttering like he’s excited when all he feels is a little squeamish at the thought that he caused any kind of unhappiness in his friend. Harry gives a small smile, though, and leans further into Liam. He didn’t realise, but Liam’s limbs feel a tad looser, like he’s relaxed into the booth for the first time that night.

“S’alright,” Harry continues, taking a sip. Liam follows the drink to Harry’s mouth, frowning thoughtfully. “It was mutual.” 

“That’s a shame, Haz,” Niall consoles with a grin, “Looks like you’re back in the single squad!”

If Liam leans into Harry some more, then only he and Harry know. If Liam drinks more than he might usually, well no one can blame him – he handed in that essay and he did well. If he’s a bit handsy; large hands tugging at Harry’s green plaid shirt, trying to ruffle the long hair that flows out from underneath Harry’s dark purple beanie; then he can blame it on the alcohol. If the way he’s staring from Harry’s green eyes, dark and alluring, to the purple beanie... well, purple _is_ his favourite colour, and Harry’s eyes match _really_ well.

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s hungover and he’s tired. Harry’s bright grin, easy as anything, almost makes him forget the cold corner of his chest where his guilt lies, ever present and unforgiving. 

Liam pushes it away, accepting the plate of marmalade on perfectly toasted bread that Harry hands him.

“D’you have plans?” Harry enquires, grinning at Liam’s groan when the sun shines into his sensitive eyes. He closes the blind, and Liam sends him a grateful look.

“No,” Liam mumbles through his palms, too tired to move them from his face, “Maybe sleeping. Not working ‘til Tuesday.” 

“Well too bad!” Harry exclaims, making Liam wince. He doesn’t look apologetic, which instantly makes Liam suspicious. Because when Harry is so giddy like this, it usually means he’s scheming to bully Liam into attending a social event, with promises of grandeur and massive amounts of fun the likes of which Liam has never even imagined.

Mostly, it means Liam tags along and clings to Harry the whole night, nursing an expensive cocktail and hoping he can keep up with the talk of new hipster bands and indie nightclubs. Liam’s not so much a partier, and he prefers his music on the hip pop side of the spectrum, so it’s always a challenge.

Harry’s wide, innocent eyes and, now that Liam realises it, tight black jeans and garishly patterned shirt, give the game away instantly.

“Why’re you all dressed like that?” Liam asks, eyes narrowing. Harry’s grin doesn’t slip, and Liam warily continues. “Harry,” He says warningly, “Not today.”

“Liam,” Harry imitates Liam’s tone, and Liam flushes red and hot, “It’ll be fun, I promise. We can make fun of the newest trend in footwear together.” He carefully forgets to mention that he buys into each new trend, but Liam indulges him. The smile on his face, big and genuine and directed toward Liam, convinces him. It’s been a while since they’ve spent time together, been a while since Liam felt like he _could_. It’s not ideal – if Liam had his way, they’d cook together (or Harry would cook with Liam’s commentary), or they’d go see a movie and laugh through the cliché bits, or they’d go to some art gallery that Harry had been talking about for weeks, Liam asking Harry to describe the meaning behind each piece. One on one activities are his favourite, with Harry. Parties make him feel out of place and decidedly not cool enough to even be Harry’s roommate, let alone his friend. 

“Fine,” Liam grumbles, and Harry beams at him, dimples almost blinding, “But if it’s too much, can we go to the park or something?”

Harry’s smile dims, but it doesn’t make Liam’s chest feel any looser. If anything, his heart squeezes painfully and the guilt within him gives a lacklustre throb.

“Yeah, Li,” _God_ , has Liam missed that nickname, “If it gets too much, we can go to the park.”

They smile at each other for a moment, before Harry abruptly comes around the kitchen bench, pulling Liam in for a tight hug despite the fact he’s standing and Liam is sitting. They don’t fit; Liam side crushed against the flat of Harry’s chest, his cheek tingling as it brushes Harry’s skin. They don’t fit, but something inside Liam clicks into place. 

They’re alright.

 

***

 

The party is just as Liam expected upon Harry’s invitation. It’s nearing nine by the time they turn up, Harry insisting on being casually late, which made Liam snort. He’s been dressed in some navy trousers, tighter than he’d usually indulge in, and a white t-shirt. A black bomber jacket keeps him warm as Liam runs a hand over his stubble, too lazy to shave it off. Harry had looked at him approvingly after ordering a change of pants, and Liam feels strangely gratified by the fact it usually takes a lot more outfit changes for Harry to approve.

He runs a nervous hand through his hair, all the same – it’s not as long as it’s been before, but it’s getting there; shorter at the sides, but still a good covering all over. He’d buzzed it way back, and he’s finally felt like growing it out might work.

Harry grins at him, dimples flashing, when he sees.

“Relax,” He says out of the corner of his mouth, the hand he has resting on Liam’s hip a comfortable weight, “You know some of them already.”

Well, it _is_ Nick’s party. And Liam knows Nick. It would be hard not to – they’re kind of like what Harry is to Liam, only to each other. When Liam didn’t know Harry that well, he thought they were boyfriends. When he casually mentioned it, Harry had laughed so hard he hadn’t been able to breathe for a good minute. Liam had blushed and changed the subject, and that’s about the extent of explanation he got for their relationship. 

Harry grabs them drinks – some spicy cocktail which tastes nice and looks just as – and they head further into the party, the rooms feeling muggy with cigarette smoke and the faint scent of weed. Liam itches for a cigarette, but quells the urge. He quit after Harry told him he had asthma, and he doesn’t plan to go back. 

As it is, Harry leads them to the verandah outside – Nick’s house is lavish and grand, a perk he has given the exorbitant amount of money he earns as a radio personality – to avoid the thick air. It’s a little cold, but soft, jazzy music drifts out from inside and makes things a little more comfortable; outdoor heaters allow only a little of the bite in the air to reach Liam through his jacket.

“This is Perrie,” Harry introduces the girl in front of them. Liam must have zoned out a bit, because last he realised Harry was speaking to a woman called Louise, his arm warm around Liam’s shoulders.

Perrie is blonde, and her blue eyes are bright. She smiles a white smile at Liam, and offers her hand to shake. Her grip is firm, and she seems like a very transparent kind of person. Liam likes her immediately.

“Alright, Liam?” Perrie asks him, and he smiles politely at her, “You haven’t seen Zayn around, have you, Harry?”

There’s a memory there, faint at the back of Liam’s head. He’s only had the one drink, the second half-finished in his hand, but things feel a little foggy. He’ll blame the weed in the air later, but it’s only once he sees Zayn’s face that things come back to him. 

“Nevermind,” Perries chirps, smiling softly now instead of bright, her hand reaching out for Zayn once he nears them, “Found him.”

“Hey, babe,” Zayn greets Perrie, giving her cheek a gentle caress with a thumb, “Hey, Harry; Liam.” He nods to them both, and Harry gives a wide smile. His arm feels heavy on Liam’s shoulder all of a sudden. 

Zayn is as Liam remembers him, although his lips aren’t nearly as red. Flashes of inked skin run through Liam’s mind, and he fights the blush wanting to take root in his cheeks.

Red lips, angel wings... Harry’s lips trailing down a stomach, nearing a navel...

Liam clears his throat, patting his chest as if something’s gone down the wrong way.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, ignoring the way Harry’s arm drags slowly off his shoulders as Liam departs, ignoring the drum of his heart against his rib cage, ignoring the sweat forming at the nape of his neck. As he weaves in and out of partygoers, he wants to rip off his jacket and fling it where he’ll never see it again, nor remember the appreciative gaze of Harry when he’d shrugged it on, or the squirmy feeling he’d had in response. 

“Liam!” Nick shouts when they run into each other in the living room, couples making out all over the place. Liam’s helpless to stop, smiling weakly at his friend. More like an acquaintance, but he gets the feeling Nick might be offended if he said that. “I haven’t seen you in _forever!_ ”

“Yeah,” Liam laughs quietly, “It’s been a while.”

“How are you?” Nick is standing close, his breath smelling strongly of alcohol – but he’s always held his liquor well, so Liam knows he’ll definitely remember this conversation in the morning, even through a raging hangover. “Harry tells me you aced that essay! Wouldn’t shut up about it, in fact.”

“What?” Liam laughs again, this time a little incredulous.

“The essay?” Nick prompts, poking Liam in the chest. He rubs at it absently. Nick’s got a strong poke. “The one he had no idea about but asked around the office specifically for you? _That_ essay? Ring any bells?”

“Err,” stutters Liam, feeling lightheaded, “What?” 

“Nevermind!” Nick waves the conversation away, scrunching up his face like the whole thing has bored him, “How’s Sophia?” 

“Sophia?” Liam feels a bit like a broken record, answering every question with his own, echoing bits and pieces of their conversation like he’s a parrot who’s only just learning to mimic. 

“ _You._ ” A dark voice comes from behind him, and Liam turns to face it.

Louis stands in front of him, small and intimidating. His hair’s curlier than when Liam had last seen it, his cheekbones cut so sharply he looks almost angry about it. His blue eyes pierce into Liam, glowering. The softness of his denim jacket and his rolled up chinos contrasts with the ugly look on his face. Liam isn’t too proud to admit he’s a bit frightened.

“Come to make more of us feel bad about ourselves, have you?” Louis steps closer, and Liam feels the heat of Nick at his back – Nick, who’s peering over his shoulder in curiosity. 

“I don’t– what?” He feels like he’s stumbling, like he can’t quite feel the floor beneath him. Everything’s moving too fast, and thoughts are flying through his head too quickly to process. 

“You know,” Louis hisses, stepping close enough so Liam can hear him but so that they can’t be overheard. Nick, though – Nick will be hearing this. “You really did a number on Harry. He thinks you can’t stand him, that you’re uncomfortable when he touches you, when he speaks about lads.” 

Liam’s mind is reeling.

 _He knows,_ a panicked voice sounds in his head, _he knows, he knows, he knows._

“I, for one, have spent enough time in the presence of _homophobes_.” The word is whispered sharply, feeling like a rubber band snapping when it reaches Liam’s ears. “Enjoy your night, Liam.”

Louis turns and walks away, and Liam feels like he just got thrown to hell and back. He’s all sweaty, worse now than before, and his hands are shaking a little.

“What the bloody hell is he on about?” Nick says loudly, drawing a few stares. Liam is– he just can’t do this, not right now.

“Liam!” Nick calls at his retreating back, and Liam hides his face from more curious gazes, “Where are you going?” 

He doesn’t answer, instead pushing through the bodies, past the makeshift dancefloor, and into the dark of the night. The cold air hits him, and he sobers enough to send out a text.

_coming over_

He grabs a cab this time, not feeling up to the tube and then a bus. It’s expensive – more than he can afford, probably – but his wallet can cry another night, a night when things aren’t collapsing around him and Liam can _think._

“Liam,” Sophia greets him when she opens the door after his incessant knocking. She pulls him inside, looking worried.

“Alright?” Liam asks, voice shaky. Sophia looks even more worried at that. Liam tries to shake out the tremble in his hands, fidgeting in the open space of Sophia’s dorm. Eleanor’s nowhere to be found, so Liam takes a deep breath. 

He steps closer, resting his hands on Sophia’s waist. She’s wearing some jeans and a plain t-shirt – it’s Sunday night, after all – and Liam’s thumbs brush the bare skin exposed as it rides up.

He goes in to kiss her, staring at her lips, thinking of her face when he eats her out, only for his mouth to touch her cheek.

“Liam,” Sophia sighs – and it’s not a breathy sigh, not the kind she gets when he does something particularly nice; no, it’s a disappointed kind of sigh, like she expected better. “Come on.” 

“What?” Liam prods, a little defensive at her warning tone, “What’s wrong?”

She pushes him away gently, and his hands fall from her waist.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” She asks instead, brushing some of his hair away from his forehead. The gesture makes him feel tired all of a sudden, and the hangover of that morning revisits him in a moment of weakness. He nods, closing his eyes. “Friends are honest, aren’t they?” He nods again, dread forming at the back of his throat. “Then I’ll be honest.”

He opens his eyes, looking down at her in question, feeling like he’s on the precipice of something, of some kind of monumental moment. He’s on the cliff edge, he’s waiting, and Sophia is going to push him into the ocean below, one filled with understanding and realisation and all the things missing from Liam’s life. He’s desperate for it, his hands now gripping her elbows tightly, _begging_.

“You don’t want to have sex with me, Liam. At least, not right now.” She doesn’t sound sad about it, doesn’t even sound resigned. Her tone is matter of fact, like this is simply the way things are.

“Of course I do.” Liam responds quickly. Of course he does. He’s here, isn’t he?

She smiles at him, small, like she’s entertaining his thought only to appease him. She tugs him over to the couch, and he vaguely acknowledges the paused film. Hugh Grant takes up the screen, the background a blurred mixture of books and bookshelves. Harry loves _Notting Hill_. Liam’s seen it too many times to count because of him.

“I think you did, at the start. But we hadn’t spoken for months, and I was feeling down about Eleanor, and so I sent you that text. You remember the one? You started talking about vegetables.”

“Harry was cooking bok choy,” Liam states dumbly, thinking of his obscure list of groceries, “It was disgusting.”

“Right,” Sophia smiles, brushing back her dark brown hair absently, “It’s been a crazy six weeks.” Only six? It feels like months to Liam, months of Harry and Louis and kissing on the couch and in the kitchen and in front of Liam. 

“I’m not following.” Liam says slowly, trying to connect everything in his brain. Whereas before everything felt too fast and blurry, his thoughts now feel sluggish, like the beginning can’t ever reach the end. Everything feels unfinished. 

“Before that, we hadn’t had sex for months. We’d hang out, yeah, but just as friends. It seemed mutual.” Sophia bites her lip, frowning in contemplation, like she’s not sure she should continue. “But we’ve had sex more times in the past six weeks than we ever did before that. And don’t get me wrong!” She rushes to finish at Liam’s opening mouth, “It’s been nice, more than nice. You’re fantastic, Liam,” Here, she blushes a bit. Liam’s too confused to feel any sort of pride at the praise, “But it’s always about me. Half the time you don’t even finish.”

 _That_ pings his pride.

“What?” he asks numbly. 

“Okay,” she concedes, gaining back a bit of her confidence and rolling her eyes, “Maybe not half the time. But you’re always focused on me – which is nice – but after a while a girl likes to reciprocate a bit.”

“I don’t get it.” Liam says, frowning.

“ _Liam,_ ” Sophia snaps, patience run out, her lips pursing as her hands squeeze his painfully, “You’re using me. It’s fine, I was using you, too. But I want you to answer me something – what are you using me for?”

He’s not sure that he likes the fact the first thing that pops into his head is Harry – Harry hovering over Zayn; Harry tilting his head back for Louis, mouth parted obscenely and eyes fluttering closed; Harry on his knees for _Nick_ –

“Whatever you’re thinking of now is the reason you’ve been having sex with me,” Sophia says bluntly, pointedly raising her eyebrows. “So you need to think about that, and you need to do something about it.” 

“But–”

“ _No,_ Liam,” she cuts across sharply, eyes hard, “Fix it.”

The cold night air feels warm when he leaves Sophia’s dorm, numb to his surroundings. He grabs the bus back to his flat, using the time it gives him to think about everything. His phone lights up multiple times, Harry’s name flashing across the screen, but Liam doesn’t know what he’d say, doesn’t know how he’d phrase anything or explain his behaviour, or Louis’s behaviour, or _anything_.

 _I can’t stop thinking about your mouth_ doesn’t make sense. _I hate seeing you with Louis_ doesn’t really mean anything, because Liam dislikes Louis. _You’re sort of the best thing to ever happen to me and I don’t want to fuck things up..._ makes sense. Means something. Is probably the way to go. 

Harry’s home when Liam gets to his flat, which surprises him. It’s not even midnight yet. Harry’s normally out until late on his weekends – he starts work on Tuesdays, something Liam has always been jealous of. Now, it means that if he fucks up royally, he’ll have the whole of tomorrow to regret it, seeing Harry’s face for hours on end.

The guilt, that ever present thing, surges up within him once more. This is all his fault. 

“Li,” Harry starts tentatively, eyes careful as he leans against the back of the couch, facing Liam. Liam deposits his keys and wallet on the side table, slowly and with a deep-seated exhaustion. “You left early.”

Liam looks at him. Really, truly looks at him.

Harry’s face is a little pale, like he’s not had enough sleep for a while. He’s got some dark circles, which is new in and of itself, and his eyes are duller than usual. The green of them is still piercing, but their brightness is muted. His brown hair is a tad greasy, though it still tempts Liam, makes him want to bury his fingers in there. Harry’s jaw is sharp, like always, with a smattering of stubble that he stubbornly continues to grow, though it never gets far. His lips are red and ample, like he’s been biting at them nervously. His collared shirt is fondly obnoxious in pattern, the buttons only half done up. His cross necklace sits comfortably against his breastbone, and his butterfly tattoo peeks out like a strange sort of temptation.

His hands are wide and his fingers are adorned with an assortment of rings. His tattoos seem soft in the low light of the flat, and Liam _wants_. He wants to run the pads of his fingers over the ink, feel if it’s any different. He wants to ask how Harry poured himself into those tight jeans, how he manages to pull off glittery boots, how he seems to be every contradiction and yet come out looking like the best thing off the runway. He wants to marvel at the way Harry looks like this and yet is the kindest person he knows, the most thoughtful, the most considering. Liam wants to talk to him forever, wants to pick his brain and wonder at it; Liam wants to drag Harry around to every person he knows and go _Look._ Look _at him. Isn’t he wonderful?_

“You’re sort of the best thing to ever happen to me,” Liam tells him clearly, mind finally clear, finally at the perfect pace. Everything is visceral, everything seems to shift into place. “And I don’t want to fuck things up.”

Harry pushes off the couch, throwing the phone in his hand behind him on the couch, uncaring. He’s focused so intently on Liam, moving forward a few steps to bridge the gap between them, the divide that Liam created and is now going to _fix_.

“You couldn’t ever fuck things up, Li.” Harry explains, his smile patient and understanding.

“Don’t excuse me like that, Haz,” Liam pleads, heart heavy, “I’ve been a right tit.”

Harry snorts, crinkles forming by his eyes as his dimples come into play.

“I’ve been jealous,” explains Liam, and at the word a sense of calm overtakes him. Naming it makes him feel more at peace with it, like he’s not going out of his mind, like he’s not questioning everything he once knew about himself. “Of you and Zayn... you and Louis... you and Nick.”

“Nick?” Harry’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Liam, you’re my best mate.”

“I know,” Liam says, and he does. He knows it _now_. “I know. But I mean–” 

And this is it. Liam can’t really take anything back after this. If he fucks this up – if he admits his feelings and Harry’s embarrassed for him, if he just wanted a friend – then he might have to leave. He’ll forfeit the flat, he’ll forfeit their mutual friends... Liam would rather do all of that than cause Harry any more pain or awkwardness. But at the same time, he realised on the bus home, he can’t go on like this.

What if Harry gets a boyfriend? If Harry has someone that he wants to marry? The thought makes Liam feel vaguely ill; but he’d have to live with it, wouldn’t he? If he didn’t try? Liam would never forgive himself, and he’s not sure Harry would ever forgive him, if there’d ever been a chance. He can’t destroy their friendship but still pretend they’re friends. Harry’s the most important. The _most._

“I mean I like you, Harry,” Liam lets out a breath, everything rushing out in that moment – doubts and questions and insecurities and _jealousy_ , “More than mates, I mean.” 

There’s a damning minute of silence. Liam’s staring at Harry, who’s staring at him, and it’s like they’re at a standstill, a physical impasse. 

“I thought,” Liam barrels on, embarrassment creeping in the longer Harry is silent, mouth parted in surprise, “I thought at first that, well, that maybe I had a problem.” He swallows thickly, “With, you know. With guys being with guys. That’s why I was such an arse, why I couldn’t leave you alone with Louis but also couldn’t be in the same room as the two of you.”

“Liam,” Harry croaks, and Liam shakes his head, trying to get it all out.

“Then. Then, I don’t know,” He frowns, thinking about all the things people had said over the past few months, the kind of things he didn’t realise might have meant something. He thinks about the party, the way Louis had confronted him, the way Nick hadn’t a clue what was going on, “Then I thought about it, and Sophia told me to get my shit together, basically. And now I’m here.”

He realises, the minute Harry frowns, that he’s not really explaining himself well.

“I thought about you and Nick,” he admits, “And how you laughed when I assumed you were together. I thought about how Zayn was with you, but now he’s with Perrie,” Harry’s face clears, “I thought about how Louis told me I’d hurt you.” Harry looks down at his feet, and Liam feels the shame and guilt bubble up once more.

“But then,” he steps forward, keeps on stepping forward with every word until he’s right in front of Harry, and Harry’s forced to look up, their faces nearly aligned. Harry’s a little taller, especially with his boots on, and it’s a foreign feeling for Liam. But he’s ready, he’s done waiting. “Then I thought about how you make me toast just right,” Harry’s lips quirk into a smile, “How you help me with uni, how you watch _Bake Off_ with me, how we go to the park sometimes, and the galleries. How you take the time to explain it all to me.” His voice gets deeper as he thinks about the next bit, “I thought about how you look with love bites all over,” A hand comes up to brush the exposed skin of Harry’s chest, and his breath hitches, “I thought about how you sound, when someone touches you _just_ right,” His hand continues its trail upward, brushing over a nipple.

“Liam,” Harry breathes, and their eyes connect, Harry’s pupils wide and dark. The green looks emerald in the light of the flat, the moon through the window casting an ethereal glow onto Harry’s face.

“I thought about your lips,” he continues, eyeing them, “and what it would feel like t–”

Harry pushes into him, his lips firm and insistent on Liam’s own. The guilt within him is bouncing like crazy in his rib cage, and it’s not until he stops actively ignoring it then and there that he realises it’s not guilt, not at all. It’s the way Harry makes him feel – squirmy, and itchy all under the skin. Liam likes Harry. He likes Harry a lot. He just... he never admitted it, not even to himself. 

“This is okay, right?” Harry pants against his lips. Liam feels similarly out of breath, hands on Harry’s hips. Harry cradles him, wide palms soft against Liam’s jaw.

“More than.” Liam answers, leaning forward again to lick into Harry’s mouth, tasting the spiciness of his cocktail, the pang of alcohol on his tongue letting Liam know he probably had a vodka mixer after, a favourite of his. 

“I didn’t–” he breathes against Liam’s lips again, and Liam shudders; overly sensitive, lips bruised and swollen with the force of their kisses, “I didn’t ever think–” 

“I’m sorry,” Liam mumbles into the kiss, the words almost swallowed up, “I’m so sorry, Haz.”

Harry makes a strangled sort of sound, pulling Liam’s face even closer to his as their hips bump into each other. Liam’s hands drift up, one under the material of Harry’s shirt to brush against his taut stomach, which twitches at the caress.

The other finally, _finally_ threads itself through Harry’s hair, producing a groan out of them both and causing Harry to break away, head tilting back obscenely to bare his neck, jaw jutting out invitingly. Liam drags his mouth across, biting as he goes, to rest upon Harry’s pulse point and give a satisfying _suck_.

Harry’s hips jerk, thrusting slowly into Liam’s own with every rhythmic lick of Liam’s tongue.

It’s not until they’re at Harry’s door, Liam’s jacket lost somewhere in the hallway, that Liam realises where this is going.

“Haz,” he pants, trying to take off his partner’s shirt, “Haz, is this okay?”

Harry groans, deep and long, unbuttoning Liam’s pants and tugging them down as hard as he can. When that doesn’t work, he pulls instead, forcing Liam to stumble into them and the both of them to fall back onto Harry’s bed. It’s a double – not quite as comfortably wide as a queen, but better than a single for sure. Liam’s been in Harry’s room many times before, has even slept in his bed – but this takes on a whole new meaning.

He shoves a hand into Harry’s hair again, tangling his fingers into it with relish as Harry leans back against his pillow, jaw moving as their tongues brush. It’s his favourite thing, he thinks, about Harry. He wants to touch it _all the time_.

Liam’s pants are halfway down his legs, his shirt still on, when Harry flips them over. His torso is littered with tattoos, some more ridiculous than others, and all Liam wants to do is bite. So he does. 

Harry’s hips push down into his again, hands squeezing, as Liam bites at the two birds on Harry’s chest.

He’s pushed back down roughly, though, before he can continue his exploration. He’s about to vocalise his displeasure, before Harry pulls his pants all the way off, aggressively focused. His shirt’s next, and Liam doesn’t have time to think about how naked he is before Harry speaks. 

“Like my mouth, yeah?” he says, but doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer. He crushes his lips against Liam’s, pulling away just as quickly. “I’ve thought about doing this for _ages._ ” 

And he moves down, licking and biting as he goes, right until he reaches the heavy weight of Liam’s cock.

“Harry,” Liam chokes out, the sight of him at his hip enough to get his dick twitching, “ _Haz._ ”

The feeling of Harry’s mouth leaves Liam speechless. He’s gasping, chest heaving, hands tangling in the sheets beneath them as Harry works his tongue on the underside, as he grasps the base of Liam and moves his mouth up and down in time with his hand. It’s stupidly enthusiastic, which isn’t surprising but is a lot arousing, and Liam’s close after only a minute or two, gripping Harry by the hair and pulling a bit as a warning. 

He’s sticky by the end, his come splattering his stomach. Harry licks at it, slow and heady, and Liam’s cock gives a valiant twitch at the sight.

“C’me here,” drawls Liam, sleepy and satisfied. Harry’s eyes are half-lidded, and his lips are obscenely red. Liam kisses him softly, tasting himself faintly before he drags his heavy hand across Harry’s stomach and cups his dick, his jeans undone and pulled down. “You’re so good, Haz,” Liam mutters into Harry’s mouth as he pants, fighting to keep his eyes open so he can see Harry fall apart, Liam’s hand getting faster and faster, “So good. Come on, _come on._ ”

He won’t forget it, he thinks, as Harry moans long and low; he won’t forget the way Harry’s lids flutter, the way his mouth parts and his hips stutter out an uneven rhythm. He certainly won’t forget the way Harry drops himself gently onto Liam, uncaring of the come between them, simply making a contented sound when Liam buries a hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp like he’s wanted to do for as long as he can remember.

He won’t forget the way their breaths even out, or the way Harry lifts his head to share a slow kiss with him, humming as they part. He won’t forget the way Harry struggles to get off his jeans, almost falling off the bed in the process. 

Last of all, Liam definitely won’t forget the way he wakes up to Harry’s young face – newly twenty-one – and feels like everything’s going to be okay. He’s got Harry. 

Everything else comes after that.

 

***

 

“Louis,” Harry groans, rolling his eyes, “It’s fine.” 

“It is _not_ fine!” Louis replies, indignantly. His hair’s a little longer now, but just as messy. Liam sees Nick eye him interestedly from afar, and wonders how the hell that’s going to play out. “He had you miserable! For ages!”

Liam frowns.

“Don’t worry,” Harry murmurs, leaning close. “Louis’s exaggerating.”

The man in question huffs, crossing his arms, looking about ready to start a brawl.

“Easy, mate,” Niall intervenes, rolling the football around with his right root, “Save it for the match.”

“Louis is going to target me,” Liam grumbles five minutes later as they put their boots on, Harry already looking hilarious with half his hair up in a bun. He’s way too excited about this game, and Liam doesn’t have the heart to tell him that everyone else are pretty good footballers. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Harry quips, shooting Liam a cheeky grin, “But Nick will distract him with his aggressive flirting and we’ll win. Then you can give me a celebratory blowjob.” 

“ _Harry!_ ” Liam hisses, glancing around. It’s a Sunday in June. The park is pretty crowded, especially with kids. Liam fights down a blush.

Harry tries not to smile, “Not _here_ , you tit.”

“I didn’t think–!” Liam splutters, “ _Harry!_ ” His boyfriend runs off, cackling, attempting to tackle the ball from Niall who easily dodges him. Zayn shakes his head from where he’s helping Perrie tie her own boots up. 

They don’t win, but Harry corners Liam as soon as they get home, anyway. 

“ _Consolatory_ blowjob,” Harry huffs into Liam’s neck, biting, “Just as good.”

“I don’t know,” Liam teases, grinning over Harry’s shoulder, forgetting to wonder how he got here, “The pain of defeat might be too much.”

Harry bites down especially hard at that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! I'm over on tumblr at [rainbowliam](http://rainbowliam.tumblr.com).


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